Monday, April 21, 2014

I'm Done With Vegas! - Nifty Fifty Pre-trip Part 1





It doesn’t matter if you have a job at the Golden Grommet-winning Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer grommet assembly plant in Flusherville, Ontario babysitting the production of endless millions of identical size 7 grommets and have somewhere to go every day, and somewhere to come home to - when you live in Winterville (aka Canada) like I do, and winter starts like a frozen bitch in early November and ball-frosts its way right through into April. No, after a while, nothing else matters, except getting AWAY from it.

As you may recall, in my last completely defeating trip report (The Spirit of Savvy), both the Quad Queen and I got our asses kicked physically, emotionally, and monetarily (well, mostly I got monetarily ass-kicked) on our New Year 2014 trip.
And when the QQ broached the idea of going back, I blanched. I’m not sure what blanched actually means, but if it means my nubs tucked their way up into my groin like a couple of piggies in blankets, then yeah, I blanched.

I’m done with Vegas,” I said. “I lost the price of a couple of replacement 84 Tercels like the one I drive to Veeblefetzer every day. We’re not going back to Vegas - not for a long, long time.”

“See ya,” she said, and got busy booking on our trusty old air transportation corporate entity - Air Fuck You Canada
.
She got on my Video Poker WinSimulator 3000 featuring WinPoker - the very same one I write these reports on, which also has enough CPU power to surf naked lady picks and airline travel sites - and booked.

I did not
.
I had no stomach for Vegas at all. Ever been there?

Not Vegas, I mean, but where you have no stomach for it?

It’s one thing to have a bad session, but to have 12 or 13 days of 'em all in a row, which is pretty much what I had, while coughing up a spleen the size of a Hallowe’en gourd, and just as colorful, onto the sticky casino carpeting - that’s just too much for one Flusher to take.

I grumbled my way out to the driveway and shoveled more of the white death that the weather dickhead gods had sent our way, enough to clear a path to the 84 Tercel, and enough to hopefully get it out of the driveway, and to the plant.

Chipping the ice off the windshield in the arctic darkness that enveloped Flusherville most mornings this winter, I fumed that QQ would go to Vegas without me - notwithstanding the fact that I didn’t want to go.

My asscheeks froze against the torn up vinyl seats, and I imagined they were as hard and white and shiny as two giant frozen Cheemo brand perogies, like the ones Kenny Blankenship tries to pass off as home-made (once cooked) at the plant Pot Luck dinners.
Cheemo Brand Frozen Perogies - or are they my butt cheeks in winter?

Just as I pulled into lot D at Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer, the lamest little granny fart of heat wisped out of the heating ‘system’ in the Tercel with a little pffffft.

I shivered and hauled my Cheemo ass-perogies in to work, my boots crunching on the brittle snow with the kind of crunch that only really fucking cold snow can make. I was frozen through, and steaming on the inside.

At lunch, as I tried to swap my tuna fish sandwiches for something better (passing them off as chicken salad), I told Jimmy Poon all my troubles.

He laughed his special little elfin Jimmy Poon laugh, that squeaky little laugh-squeak of his, that only he has, the one that says - this is Jimmy Poon laughing.

Jimmy Poon slid something in a small paper bag toward me across the bolted down aluminum lunch table, while Kenny lit an Export A unfiltered and got a Euchre game going with the guys from the size 8 grommet line.

I looked at the brown paper bag.

“What. Is this?”

“Open it, Royal. Open it and see.”

“Is it a huge chunk of hash? It better not be a huge chunk of hash. If this is a huge chunk of hash, it had better be big enough to last my retirement after I get fired for owning a huge chunk of hash.”

“No hash. Open it.”

I took the bag and looked inside. The crinkly old lunchbag contained something wonderful. It was black with silver trim, and about the size of one of those oversized huge key fobs that cars come with these days. Except it had a bunch of buttons on it, and no keys.

“I upgraded my mobile car access and control system to the latest and greatest,” Jimmy Poon explained.

He flashed a similar but better key fob. His looked like it was titanium, with sleek indented buttons and pinprick colored indicators, all shining and blinking.

“I got the Blowpunkt Saturn 6 Ignitionmaster with bluetooth, voice recognition, and cloud recovery system.” He pressed a button and a little titanium stick the size of a pencil and about half as long popped out.

My eyes grew big as saucers (I’m told. I’ve never used a saucer, except maybe once at Society Cafe - but if I did it was unknowingly.)

“What’s that for?!” I asked

“Rewind cassette tapes. Royal, I’m going to install my old starting system in your car for the rest of the winter.”

“Jimmy that’s fantastic!!!” I could have kissed his greasy little lips. But I didn’t want to.

“Just, whatever happens - don’t lose this fob, okay? This controls the system. It’ll start your car remotely and warm it up for you. But if you lose the fob, its $300 to replace it, and this is the only one I’ve got.”

“Don’t worry!” I said, as I attached my Tercel and house keys, mail key, 2007 War Amps tag, Veeblefetzer locker key, Pet Smart discount tag, and, of course, vintage plastic El Cortez photo keychain thingy with some unknown broad’s picture in it that I liked the look of so I took it off the board at the slot club in the El Cortez once.

When your wife ditches you for Vegas in the middle of endless winter, it’s great to have a friend like Jimmy Poon.



2 comments:

  1. As Jeff Gordon would say, "awesome!"

    ReplyDelete
  2. This is going to be a wonderfully long report,, can't wait!

    ReplyDelete

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